Mavournín
by Equestrienne Dreams
Summary: Patrick, Shelagh, and their wedding night. Turnadette, spoilers for 2x08.


The quiet is all around her, a stillness like she has never felt before. Not like this. The air seems to hum, vibrant and warm with oh, such peace as she has never known. Softly, so softly, she leans back against the broad chest standing behind her. His breath is warm in her ear, his hands branding her with heat through the cloth that covers her hips, and she can feel him, too, here in the quiet with her. His voice is a rumble that is more vibration than sound, suffused with love. "Well then. Mrs Turner."

The very name sets her atremble. She has waited months to hear it, ached for it with a fierceness she hadn't known she possessed, and now that it is hers she is beyond words. She knows exactly what she wants, knows exactly what they both need, but she cannot find a way to begin, and for a few moments longer the stillness will be enough.

The answer, when it comes, is so obvious she nearly laughs – or would have laughed, if she could have found the breath. Instead of words, it is back to the beginning, and what else could be more fitting?

Gently, but so sure of herself, she clasps one of his hands, takes it from her hip, caresses the worn rough skin of his knuckles and then, finally, kisses his palm with all the passion she can muster.

His fingers curl tight when she takes her mouth away, as though he is holding it there to cherish forever, and she can feel him shaking behind her. "Shelagh." His voice lingers over the word. Lovely, it is so lovely the way he says her name and she cannot breathe with it, had never known it could sound like starsong until it was said in the mouth of the man she loved. "You know we don't have to."

Finally she turns to face him. She cannot bear not to see him, not any longer. "I know." Somehow she finds words, from some distant place beyond the symphony in her heart and the fire in her mind. Her arms come around his neck of their own accord, and his hands – those big, broad, healing hands – settle again on her hips. The one she had kissed is still curled in a fist, and she finds his eyes with hers, the green so soft, so adoring, she is nearly brought to tears. "But oh, Patrick, I think I might go mad if we don't."

His lashes flutter shut, and he swallows hard. Blindly he kisses her forehead, her cheek, one eyelid and then the other, and she is pressing her own kisses to him, to his throat, to the curve of his jaw, to the tender place where his neck meets his shoulder. Distantly she is aware that she is shivering all over, that her hands are curling in his shirt, that her knees have gone weak and he is holding her up, but she does not care, cannot care when he is touching her like this, and in this brief spellbinding moment of a time out of time she is drowning in want, in love, in two souls meeting.

His lips find hers at last and then her knees are gone completely. Mouth clings to mouth as she holds herself upright with the clutch of her fingers in his shirt, but it is his strong hands at her waist that are keeping her from collapsing to the ground and she leans into him, overwhelmed and overcome.

"Shelagh," he murmurs again, his voice rough, hoarse with feeling, "Shelagh, my own, I am so sorry but I think if I don't get you out of this dress now I'll never manage it."

"I can't let go." She can't, she is physically unable to tear herself away.

"Just for a moment." He sounds as wrecked as she feels, and like lightning it hits her that he can't let her go, either, that the idea of not touching is enough to make him ill, but they _have _to and so she drags in a great sobbing breath and finds her feet and turns her back before she can think the better of it.

"Hurry." She cannot stop shivering, her voice shook on that single syllable, and the only reason she hasn't whirled round and flung herself into his arms again is the ghost of warmth at her back where his fingers fumble with the laces.

Her veil is long gone, all the pins taken out of her hair, and he sweeps the blonde fall of it aside to lie over her shoulder. His mouth scorches on the back of her neck, on her collarbone, on her shoulder-blade, and she holds her breath, waiting, aching.

Finally the laces come away, and though she doesn't know how, she eases the gown over slip and petticoats, laying the fabric gently aside, just careful enough to make sure it will not slip to the floor before she is back in his arms again, resting her head against his chest as his heart thuds beneath her ear. There are layers still between them, he is still fully dressed, but she feels stripped, bare, absolutely open.

Something in his touch makes her brave. She pushes his jacket to the floor and, without stopping to think, begins to work at the buttons of his shirt. He touches her face, runs his hand down the length of her arm, says her name like he's dying. She is fumble-fingered and clumsy, but he doesn't seem to care and in the end she cannot bring herself to, either. Not when he is trembling under her hands.

Not soon enough his shirt joins his jacket on the floor. Her hands skate to his waist, push up under his vest, and if she had though he was shaking before it was nothing to the way his body jumped and strained under the touch of skin on skin. "Shelagh," he says desperately, like a prayer, "Shelagh, my only, my… please, may I…"

She is nodding before he can finish. She is his, utterly his, body and heart and soul. They are so in tune with one another she knows, in the same way she knows God is her guide and nursing is her calling, that there is nothing he could do to her now that she would not want, would not ache for just as badly as he does. And she is right. He unfastens the hooks of her petticoat, and she kicks the puff of chiffon and tulle away. It could not be less important. She is only in her thin silky slip now and somehow his trousers are around his ankles, but they have been apart too long; she buries her face against his chest, curls into his body, and he catches her with a gasp as his arms hold her tight.

Then – oh, then, and she should have known this was coming, he is an old-fashioned man after all, it is one of the reasons she loves him so, chivalry is not just a word to him, oh no – he sweeps her off her feet, cradling her in his arms, carrying her as easily as a dream.

Gently he lays her on the bed, his hands everywhere. He cannot stop touching her, is kissing her collarbone, her shoulder, the curve of her breast through thin fabric. Her body arches into his touch and he cannot take it, he bows over her to kiss her mouth, to stroke her hair. His scent is all around her and she is lost in him, utterly lost and yet always, always found.

She tugs fretfully at his vest, there's too much between them, anything at all between them is too much and his fingers join hers as it comes off and over his head. She sits up, raining her own kisses over muscle and bone, dying to taste him. All the while he is holding her like she is something precious, and she melts, just melts into him. One strap has slipped down her arm already, and hesitatingly he eases the other down as well, a question in his touch.

"Please," is all she can say, though she's not sure if she manages more than a pleading gasp of breath. Whatever the case, it is more than enough for him, and she is unbelievably grateful for it. He pushes the silky fabric down to crumple around her waist, and her breasts spill out to fill his palms as he worships her with his mouth, with his hands, with low murmurs of wonder. Everything is burning, she is ablaze wherever he touches her and liquid fire is pooling deep in her belly. The air is singing and he is breathing heavily, panting against her skin, looking at her with stars in his eyes. It's the way he's always looked at her, and she is undone with it, how can he look at her that way, like she is something close to holy?

"Shelagh," he murmurs, wondering, delighted, drowning. "Oh, _Shelagh."_

"Patrick," she echoes, so joyous it hurts, and he chokes out something that sounds like a sob and crushes his mouth to hers, arms holding her fiercely to him. She clutches him back, the touch of skin on bare skin leaving her gasping and breathless and wanting.

The next thing she knows she is on her back again, dazed, panting. His body is covering hers and she strains against him, arching, giddy with the solid weight of him on top of her, all around her. It's with a bit of a shock that she realises he has shucked his boxers, that the only fabric separating them now is the crumpled slip around her waist, and the knowing of it makes her head spin.

She is a nurse and a midwife and she has known for years what happens between men and women in the dark, but not until this man, with his healing hands and strong arms and kind eyes and tremendous heart and his mouth that tasted like tea and smoke and home, had she truly known _why. _With him – with him she _wants. _She needs to be joined, filled, _taken, _because he is hers and she is his and they have belonged to each other since they were Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette falling in love over spirit lamps and Henleys and common purpose, and now that Patrick and Shelagh have found each other too the only thing she can be is his.

She only realises the tears are leaking from the corner of her eyes when he wipes them gently away with his thumb, then kisses the wetness and leaves her trembling. "All right?" he murmurs huskily, and she knows what he is asking. In answer she rocks herself quite deliberately up against him, and bites back a moan as she feels him hard against the cradle of her hips. He cries out, eyes flying open wide in shock.

"Minx," he breathes hotly against her ear, his voice sodden with wonder and wanting. That darling face creases in a bright beaming smile, and it is dazzling, discovering that she can do this to him, that everywhere she touches him she hears a different kind of sigh. She wants to learn them all, and play him like a symphony. She rocks up again just to see his reaction and he gasps tight in the back of his throat, something dark and sweet in his eyes. "Shelagh," he says warningly, "you stop that right now or I'll – "

Sinuously she rubs herself against his hardness and watches him squirm, thrilling in the hot flashover of desire in his eyes and the surge of heat that coils low and deep in her core. Oh, it is beautiful the way they are together, she is learning herself and him at the same time and everything in her thrills to him. "Or you'll what?" she asks breathlessly, delighting in him.

"This," he breathes, and touches her between her thighs, where she is soft and wet and aching.

Her body leaps against his at the shocking intimacy, caught between his body and the mattress, and she may have actually screamed aloud. "_Oh!" _ Wildly she kisses his mouth, the beautiful worn skin of his cheek; bites at his lips and begs silently because the words are completely beyond her.

And he knows. Of course he knows. Always they have been able to speak without words and now, with his eyes drinking in her face, with her gaze fixed on his, they are more attuned than ever. She arches against his fingers and whines at the pleasure, and he kisses her cheekbone, her forehead, the corner of her mouth, murmuring nonsense in her ear. When she looks up at him with desperate eyes he nods, slowly, his eyes plainly scanning her face for any hint of fear, any hint of reserve. "You're certain?" he asks, his voice low and steady despite his trembling body.

"Yes," she pants, and she is. Of course the nerves are fizzing under her skin but she wants him, even craves him, and the thought of not having him inside her, of having to _wait, _is simply unbearable. "Yes, I'm certain." And she smiles helplessly. "I couldn't be more certain."

He smiles back at her, just as helpless with joy and memory. "All right." Tenderly he caresses her face with his free hand. "Just hold on to me."

She nods, breathless and wanting. "Don't look away." She needs his face, his eyes on hers, the way it's always been between them, and she couldn't explain why if she had to, but the look on his face tells her there's no need. He understands the why even when she doesn't and oh, Lord, how she loves him for it.

His eyes are still drinking in her face as he kisses her, works the slip down her legs and off completely. She doesn't know where it lands and she doesn't care because he is looking at her and looking at her and neither of them can stop.

"I love you, Shelagh." He touches his forehead to hers and murmurs the words in the tiny space between them and she shakes once, all over, because of course she _knows _he loves her just as desperately as she loves him, it's been written in every look and every touch and every word he's ever said to her, but he has only said the words themselves a handful of times, and so every time he does it is all the more precious, one more memory to hide away in her heart and cherish on the lonely nights when he is called away on a case or she is on call at Nonnatus and unable to come home.

When she finally does take him into her it's with a gasp and a shudder and tears in her eyes, because it's the most amazing thing, the most incredible glorious heavenly thing, the way he fits her and fills her and makes her whole. All the cold empty places she hadn't known were dark come alive and afire with the rapture of him inside her, and it is too much, so much she can't help but begin to cry, just a little.

He starts to pull back with fear all over his face and she shakes her head, kisses him. "It's too beautiful," she manages to say, though the words are a poor shadow of the glory blazing through her, and he relaxes, so relieved, and looks at her as though he can't quite believe his eyes. Then, because it feels right: "I love you." His eyes go soft and misty, and he kisses her gently, holds still above her until she cants her hips and asks for more.

That's when they begin to move, and though part of her wants to close her eyes she can't, she has to keep looking at his face, curls her fingers in his hair and watches the wonder and delirium and joy flicker across that beautiful weathered skin and through the warm rich green of his eyes.

Pressure builds inside her and her hips shift, restless, searching for something. He moves with her, they are surging on a wave of pleasure like she's never known, like she couldn't have dreamed, but his eyes are not leaving hers and so she follows him and follows and follows and there is no fear, no nerves, only unity and joy. He whispers her name like a prayer and she rises to meet him again and again; this is totally new but her body knows what to do, even if she herself doesn't, and so she trusts herself and trusts in him and lets that be enough.

She is shuddering all over as he strokes deep inside her, almost unable to process the sheer intimacy of what is happening with this man. She had thought herself stripped open when she was half-dressed and standing in his arms but that is nothing, _nothing _compared to what she is feeling now, when every gasp, every breath, every heartbeat was his as it was hers, and hers as it was his. _It's a crescendo, _she thinks dazedly, _a building crescendo, what will it be when it peaks…?_

"Shelagh," he rasps raggedly, "Shelagh, my… I don't know how long I can last. You're too…" He bites his lip and fights something, breathing shakily. "You're too lovely, Shelagh, I can't… I'm so sorry, I…"

"It's all right," she whispers, she is wrung out with pleasure and it's almost too much. "I'm so… Patrick, I…" Trembling on the knife's edge, she holds onto him and rides out the storm.

And then – oh, and then – he moves just right, one particular twist of his hips that drives a shocked sobbing moan from her throat as she goes dizzy, lightheaded. Everything flashes white-hot and splinters apart, shattering sanity, shattering reality; it washes over her as liquid fire, burning her alive from the inside out, and with a gasp of awe she gives herself up to the glory of it, a phoenix going up in flames.

The most beautiful thing, she thinks when she comes back to herself again, was that his eyes never left her face. Her physical release, tremendous though it was (_beautiful though it was, _she thinks, _nothing has ever been that beautiful, it felt like touching heaven_), had paled next to the wonder that had crossed his face as he came apart above her.

Even still, he's careful not to land on her, rolling to his side as he gathers her close and she melts into his side with a contented little sigh. "You're all right?" His eyes are still on her face, and they cannot look away from each other. Always that's how it's been, so few words between them but always the private glances and burning gazes and silent conversations that make talking almost superfluous. His love of her is written in his eyes like poetry.

Slowly, dreamily, languid with love and light and perfect union, she smiles at him. "It was… everything," she says at last. "And so much more." Curious now, she wriggles a little further onto her side so she can look at him more comfortably. "And… you?" Her cheeks flame with a scarlet blush. "I'm not exactly…"

He kisses her quiet, soft but insistent. "Shelagh." His tone brooks no argument, but he is stroking her hair and gazing at her as though he is the most fortunate man ever to walk the earth. "Shelagh, you very much _are._" The smile crosses his face, lights up his eyes, lights up her heart. "And so much more." He brushes her cheek with his lips, takes her hand and kisses it reverently. "I'm not much of a believer," he murmurs against her cheek. "I never have been, really. But being with you…"

"Being with me?" she whispers, holding her breath.

"Being with you felt… like something sacred."

She closes her eyes for a moment, overcome, then blinks back up at him, and cannot keep the wondrous smile from her face. A little uncertainly her hand cups his cheek, and he leans into her palm, his eyes fluttering closed. "For me, too." She exhales the words, knowing they are only the truth, and for the first time truly understands why marriage is nothing less than a sacrament.

Abruptly she is profoundly exhausted, worn out by the day, and she can sense him fading fast beside her as he draws the bedclothes over them both. He takes her hand from his cheek and kisses her palm softly, benediction and supplication in one, then holds it close to his chest, where she can feel the strong, steady beat of his heart.

The last thing she knows before she succumbs completely to sleep is the gentle, soothing pressure of his other hand stroking her hair.


End file.
